


Fire Emblem: Three Thousand Drabbles

by Nenalata



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Baby!Byleth, Dorms, Drabble, F/M, Floor Plans, Gen, Goddess Tower (Fire Emblem), Multi, Neighbors, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Pre-Time Skip, Sylvain Is A Tag And You Know Why, Taverns, Wordcount: 100-500
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: A collection of 200-500 word stories, prompted by the Felannie server each week(ish).Did you want a mix of consistency? Did you want related drabbles? Did you want consistent timelines? Well, you didn't get it. You got these.
Relationships: Flayn & Raphael Kirsten, My Unit | Byleth/Shamir Nevrand, Sylvain Jose Gautier & My Unit | Byleth, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 45
Kudos: 55
Collections: Those Who Drabble in the Dark





	1. Siege Tactics

**Author's Note:**

> Written for, as it _always_ seems to be, the Felannie discord server, for our weekly drabble prompts. Gonna update this with each week so I don't drown the world in fics.
> 
> This week's prompt:
> 
> Dorms, room arrangements, buildings, dorm denizens of Garreg Mach. Has to be within 200-500 words. Enjoy my 468.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seteth had been supposed to do something about the squeaky floorboards, but then again, Sylvain had been supposed to hand in his siege warfare essay on time. Byleth was still waiting on both.
> 
> OR: Byleth suffers the consequences of living in the room under Garreg Mach's most notorious playboy.

Seteth had been supposed to do something about the squeaky floorboards, but then again, Sylvain had been supposed to hand in his siege warfare essay on time. Byleth was still waiting on both.

More importantly, Byleth was still the only one _suffering_ from their tardiness.

He sat at his desk with a towering stack of papers, each written in various degrees of cluelessness and brilliance. The Blue Lions House was larger than he’d anticipated; more students than the “in-crowd” of this year’s graduating class now had him paying the price for assigning fifteen hundred words per Kingdom student.

A feminine voice _giggled_ from upstairs.

Byleth grit his teeth, hunched over Ashe’s rambling, sloppy parchment, and pretended to be engrossed.

Heavy bootsteps. A deeper laugh.

Byleth finished his comments on Ashe’s haphazard solution (“No.”) and moved on to Mercedes’s proposed peace treaty.

The floorboards squeaked as one pair of footsteps stalked towards the source of the high-pitched laughter. Lighter footsteps skittered away. Further.

Above the floorboards over Byleth’s own bed.

Byleth’s hand, shaking with irritation—and maybe something else—passed Mercedes’s paper to the rest of the completed essays scribbled with his comments (“Maybe.”).

The bed on the floor above his didn’t have a squeaky frame, at least. Its owner had been considerate enough to fix _that_ annoyance, but only due to the scolding of his next-door neighbor.

But the floorboards…

They squeaked again.

 _Rhythmically_.

Byleth had checked in with the counselor once, as an anonymous student had requested rearrangement of rooms on the second floor. He was confident he knew who the student was and, as he privately agreed with that student’s concerns, took Seteth aside and made suggestions.

The answer had been an uncomfortable _no, some students’ families are rather…particular, you see how it is, the nobility’s temperaments and needs…_

But Seteth had promised, at least, to get those damned second-level floorboards to stop squeaking, which they were doing now, speeding up, and poor Annette’s probably-adequate proposition went ignored as Byleth scraped back his chair, grabbed his sword, and ran to the training grounds to get _away_ and maybe…work out some _tension_.

And what was worse—no, what was the _worst_ …

“Hey, Professor!” Sylvain greeted him first thing in the morning, bright-eyed and grinning like he’d gotten a good night’s sleep, unlike _some people_. He shook a few pages above his head like a childlike taunt. Byleth wanted to hit him. “Got that essay we were supposed to do. Sorry it’s late.”

The worst thing was how the trained-for-Sreng-skirmishes Margrave Gautier’s heir’s essays were always _brilliant_.

“You’re going to start learning white magic,” Byleth said instead of thanking him. Sylvain’s eyebrows disappeared under his hairline.

“I’m— _what_?”

“I’m going to teach you how to cast Silence.”


	2. A Challenger Appears!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ENTER...RAPHAEL & FLAYN, THE AMAZING SHOUTING DUO**
> 
> Raphael takes over his family inn, and with it, half of each customer's food portions. He could probably do with a good screaming-at.
> 
> OR: I probably wanted to write a Raphael&Flayn Chopped!AU but that wasn't the prompt so I didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Take any platonic or ambiguous paired ending from the game, from any route. And write something about it (can still ultimately be shippy fic, the point is to use a pair who have a platonic or ambiguous ending)
> 
> Here is their AMAZING ending card from their ALSO AMAZING supports:  
> "Raphael returned to his hometown, where he served his liege lord as a knight for a time. Later, he gave it up to help manage the inn that his family had opened up during his time away. Away from the battlefield and able to eat as much as he pleased, he eventually began to grow soft. It was around that time that Flayn, who had also neglected her training, came to visit. The two helped motivate one another, and together they embarked on a new exercise routine. Thereafter, it is said that their energetic shouts and cries of exertion could be heard throughout the village at any time of day."

“Order up!”

Raphael grabbed the giant plate his sister shoved his way piled with two hunks of cheese and a split loaf of bread. His patron at the end of the bar couldn’t see Raphael pop one of the cheeses in his mouth and squirrel away one half of the bread, but he did see the artful way his meal arrived: a piece of cheese and half-loaf elegantly arranged on a too-huge plate.

“What an experience!” the inn patron gushed. “Such presentation! Such style!”

Raphael grinned and ate the rest of the man’s meal he’d pilfered. His baby sis was always so great at double portions. She knew her war hero of a brother deserved plenty of food. His gut showed it and his muscles showed _less_ , but hey, better than campaign rations—

The door’s bell jangled. “Raphael! There is so much of you! You must have been shouting non-stop all these years!”

Raphael whirled around, bread loaf still in his teeth. Skipping up to the counter was a familiar girl— _too_ familiar.

“Flayn? What’re _you_ doing here?”

Flayn beamed, looking not a day older than she had back in school. Or during the war. Or after the war, really. “Why, I came to train,” she replied, as if it were obvious.

Maybe it was. Maybe Raphael had forgotten something. Maybe they were supposed to—

“Uh, right,” he said, glancing at his thick but not-very-muscled arms. “I, uh, I sure am sorry, Flayn. You came sooner’n I…thought.”

Flayn nodded multiple times, each time more excited. “That is precisely why I came! I have been neglecting my training, you see,” she stage-whispered, as if they weren’t in Raphael’s tiny family inn with only one happy patron delicately nibbling bread and cheese. “The monastery is hardly a place for shouting, what with my stern brother running amok. My skills have suffered for it. But you are no stern brother, and you have taught me the ways of shouting and strength! And so I decided to come sooner than planned!” She ended her little speech with a curtsy. Raphael, unsure of how else to reply, offered a few loud but polite claps.

He hadn’t really…made plans with Flayn, Raphael was pretty sure. But his hands kind of smarted after just a couple exuberant claps.

Peacetime was great for food. Not so great for his muscles.

“He isn’t a stern brother, that’s for sure!” Raphael’s sis called from the kitchen. “But get him shoutin’ and strong again, and I’ll owe ya one, girlie! Caught me a nice fish this—”

Flayn’s eyes lit up. “Did…what kind of…fish…?”

“All right, Flayn!” Flayn jumped at the sound of Raphael’s booming voice. He grinned; that was more like it! He felt one muscle get a bit stronger, too. “You ready to get our rears back in gear?”

“ _I am all geared up_!” she squeak-roared. She did need practice.

“Excuse me,” the inn patron sniffed.

Raphael and Flayn roared in unison, and the man shut up.


	3. Open a New Tab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shamir bumps into Byleth at a tavern. Not much strangeness there.
> 
> Except Shamir was relaxing in between merc contracts, and Byleth was waiting for his dad to negotiate their next one.
> 
> Set pre-game. Like, way pre-game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend's prompt is by the inimitable [MereBear:](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MereBear/pseuds/MereBear)
> 
> "INNS/TAVERNS!!! All sorts of fun shenanigans go down at these lively establishments!!!"
> 
> sorry what did that mean write shamir for no reason whoops

It was a _kid_ who came into the tavern.

A kid with a sword, sure, but all kids seemed to have swords around here. Few of them knew how to hold one, let alone use it. One swift knee to the stomach and Shamir knew that sword would fly out of his hand faster than gold from his mama’s coinpurse. The innkeep’d be happy with either; no one liked drunk children with swords getting in the way.

Shamir turned her attention back to her flagon. And the kid turned his attention to her.

She couldn’t see him, but she could _feel_ it. Shamir hadn’t survived this many years since Dagda by not sensing threats. And the kid was staring straight at her like she was his next target—

“Okay, kiddo. I’ll head on back, negotiate the contract. You stay put; don’t spend all this week’s pay again, you hear?”

 _Target_.

The kid was a merc.

And that _kid_ slid into the seat beside her own.

“One,” he told the innkeep. Voice flat like a whetstone.

The innkeep raised a brow and kept cleaning a flagon. “One what?”

“One drink.”

“A drink of what?”

“Alcohol.”

This annoying exchange could go on forever. “He’ll have whatever this is,” Shamir interrupted, shaking her flagon of crap beer. “On my tab.” She repressed a shudder when the teen’s eyes bore into her own.

Blank. Empty. Unfathomable.

“You don’t have to do that,” the kid said, considerate words rendered uncanny by his monotone.

“No, I don't,” Shamir said in the same tone. “But you don’t wanna spend all your week’s pay _again_. Seems like your boss knows it’s a habit.”

The teen hardly flinched as the bored innkeep dropped a heavy flagon on the bar. “Father.”

“What?”

“He’s my father. Not my boss.”

“Huh.” Shamir didn’t care enough to pry, but shouldn’t parents be more concerned with their offspring’s safety? Unless…“Daddy’s a mercenary, then? You’re spending all his coin until a mark fights back too much?”

He had one expression for every word. Shamir openly stared when the kid replied, as evenly as before, “ _I’m_ a mercenary. I kill people for money, too. And my Father taught me it’s not polite to kill people when they’ve already given you their gold.”

Shamir watched, half-amused, half-impressed when he punctuated his cold statement by chugging half the flagon. It clattered back on the bar, noticeably quieter than before.

“Thanks for having me on your tab,” the kid told her. He didn’t sound very grateful, but then again, he didn’t sound _anything_. He slid the half-empty flagon down the bar her way, and Shamir blocked it with hers on instinct. “Next drink’s on me.”

His chair screeched as he pushed himself out of it. One hand on his sword, one hand tucked into his cloak: obviously aggressive but self-consciously defensive.

Shamir stared past her two drinks as the kid sulked in the corner, decidedly not looking at her.

Devoid of emotion save for when she’d insulted his dad.


	4. The Prettiest Little Sweetness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo long time no see! I finally was able to do a drabble this week! This one's theme was Valentine's Day-themed! Because happy V-Day! And the _real_ theme for it was..."Lost Chances."
> 
> This (sfw) drabble is an expansion of a referenced moment in my monster-length (explicit, beware) Sylvain/Mercedes story [This One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766740/chapters/49346297) in its very first chapter, but you hopefully don't have to read it to enjoy it.

This ball was full of girls, not women, and Sylvain wanted to be alone.

He couldn’t even say why, exactly. Maybe it was because his monastery-issued formal uniform fit so poorly on his broad-shoulder frame. Maybe it was because he felt too sweaty after dancing with faceless, flirtatious students. Maybe it was because his skin felt too tight each time a girl nervously asked him to the Goddess Tower.

Sylvain did not want to and said so, albeit with just as much grace as he’d offered in his dances.

But here he was instead. Standing before that looming, sacred structure, ignoring the giggles and kisses echoing around it from not-so-clandestine couplings and solemn vows. Honestly, it either said something very good or very bad about the Knights of Seiros to let this tradition slide each year. ‘Forbidden,’ it seemed, meant something only to the least sentimental.

This night depressed him already. Sylvain rounded its side to find a good place to hide. But he was taken by surprise to discover his imagined refuge already occupied in the curvaceous shape of Mercedes von…Something.

“Hello, Sylvain,” she beamed up at him. A bundle of sweets lay in her lap. “How funny to see you alone here. Especially today.”

“I came to see you,” Sylvain replied on impulse. He caught himself. “Ah, now that I see _you’re_ here, I mean.”

“Sure, sure.” But Mercedes patted the dust beside her, to make room. An invitation Sylvain, whatever reason, didn’t want to refuse. He settled beside her, leaned his head against the uncomfortable engraved bricks, and stared at the moon in silence.

It was waning now. It didn’t make her face glow. Nothing to look at, nothing to admire. “Did you bake those?” Sylvain asked.

“Oh! I did! They’re peach.” A round little dumpling manifested in the corner of his vision, Mercedes’s happy face was just as round. “Would you like one?”

“Absolutely.” Their fingers brushed, and it didn’t burn. The peach bun was cold, sweet, soft in his mouth. Something too good, too pure, _too_ sweet for—

Mercedes waited until he finished chewing, but he could feel her quiet pleasure even before she finally asked, “Do you like them?”

He grinned around it, brushing his lips. “I don’t think I’ll ever taste something so worth savoring ever again.”

Mercedes coughed an embarrassed laugh, scooted closer, and hid her face in his shoulder. Sylvain hoped she didn’t hear the sudden stutter of his heart. “I don’t believe you,” she said into his unflattering uniform. “But after hearing what you tell girls…well. I hope it’s the worst lie you’ll ever tell _me_ , Sylvain.”

Surely she could hear his heartbeat now.

Surely she wasn’t different.

Mercedes was more woman than girl, but surely she didn’t see him any differently.

Mercedes didn’t try to touch him past the simple gesture of her head on his shoulder, arm brushing his arm. And Sylvain had no idea what to do.

Kiss her, maybe. Feel her sweet breath in his mouth, taste her, savor this feeling he’d never get again.

Mercedes yawned against him. “Pardon me! I must be sleepier than I thought!” she announced. She placed the remaining sweets in his lap now, still wrapped in their lovely handkerchief, and got to her feet before Sylvain could even imagine how soft her lips could feel. “A gift, then. For a good night with a good friend.”

“Good night,” Sylvain said stupidly. She was gone in an instant. And Sylvain was left staring after her, no answers to questions he hadn’t wanted to ask save cooling peach buns leaving crumbs on his uniform.


End file.
